Childhood Swift Kicks and Ex-Flavored Potpourri

So my sister had her second baby a few days ago. I still don't have one. I'm not complaining, I have a chihuahua and he doesn't cry much. I just always thought by this age I would be married with a big fabulous house, a rotating shoe closet, a koi pond as feature in Home & Garden and 2 privately educated genetic perfections of my own. But No. Instead I have student loans and a 4 pound dog that snores. I'm not complaining. Sure all of my friends are married. And true I spend my late nights writing but um, well, I can't really think of a plus side right now. But at least I'm not with any of my exes. Now I'm smiling again.

When I was 8 and Beth was 6, she was the cute one. I held my own in the personality department but damnit, she was always the cute one. We were both loved equally and I always adored her but my parents had it all figured out from June 8th 1984. I loved attention. To avoid jealousy, they always gave us the same everything. Toys, clothes, everything. Somehow, she always got the color I wanted. I would beg and threaten until she gave it to me. One time I told her she wouldn't grow unless she gave me what I wanted. She believed me and my death stare. I won. But somewhere between 8 and 28, I lost my will. The fight in me ran off with my childhood.

Somewhere, I stopped winning and accepted the guy that was just a little bit more than OK. On paper, brilliant. In a suit, pure perfection. Together, we always turned heads. But there was always something missing. I know you think I'm writing of someone in particular; I laugh. But honestly, aren't they all the same guy? By chance, they happen to have different names, same M.O.  If examined closely, each culprit has contributed to the current state of a pretty great me. So today, I've realized two things. #1. I can finally admit it, my type ain't right. and  #2. I completely miss being 8 years old.